In the dead of winter with the snow
swirling in lazy patterns, I wonder
where do the baseball players go.
Some rest in luxurious houses;
some travel to distant parts of the world
and some even do some token charity work.
But the truth is many of them
hunker down in large underground tunnels,
akin to those near the dugout,
far below the earth’s white coverlet.
Here they fine-tune their batting swings,
all in the effort to increase their average
when major league ball starts again.
They twist and turn, make adjustments,
as the automatic pitching machines
toss one ball after another towards them.
Occasionally, like a groundhog,
they nose up to the surface to see
if the snow has cleared and flowers,
the harbingers of spring, have dotted the outfield grass.
To be sure, they feel claustrophobic underground,
but it is a small price to pay for the possibility
of having an outstanding season full of glory.